Never gonna tell
by pesky.lil.critter
Summary: One-shot. Dean was six when it first happened. Five years later, eleven years, twenty-five years, he's still certain that he made the right choice never telling anyone about this. Wizard!Dean. My first crossover and my first Supernatural fic.


Dean keeps the letter.

He still has no idea why he made that decision, but he's just past thirty and living with Lisa and Ben and, not for the first time, he notices the weird stuff that happens around him, mostly when he's angry. Suddenly he's glad that he didn't throw the letter away when he got it.

Finding someone who can help him isn't easy, and Dean's not too happy that he's in need of help in the first place, but at least he knows where to look.

* * *

He has met these people twice before. The pretty young woman who showed up on his seventeenth birthday to explain some of the laws and who took him to buy a wand (still holding first place on his list of weird days) went a long way toward convincing Dean that maybe this magic thing isn't as evil as the things he hunts.

The first natural-born magic users Dean ever meets show up in late July the year Dean turns eleven. Until then he thought the letter from the "International Confederation of Natural-Born Magic Users; Department for the Observation and Education of Underage Witches and Wizards" (what a mouthful but, as Dean learned over the years, that's normal for these people) was someone's very dumb idea of a joke. Mr. Wilkens and Ms. Monelli very quickly and effectively disabuse him of that notion. It's kind of hard to argue against a mouse that used to be a cup.

He makes absolutely certain that they are actually going to let him choose his own course (and not tell Dad about any of this), and then he very politely tells them where to stick their offer for a magical education. He's glad because Sammy's cartoon is over a half hour later and Dad comes back about twenty minutes after that.

* * *

The first time it happens (that Dean can remember) he is six years old.

Dad and Sammy are at the apartment, both asleep in front of the TV. Dad was gone all night and Sammy wouldn't sleep until Dad was… back. (Dean can't bring himself to call this place home. Home burned when Mom did and, like her, he's never going to get it back.)

It's just past noon and they're all out of food so Dean grabs Dad's wallet and a backpack and goes store down the street. He grabs a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk and a hunk of cheese and heads back.

He's busy searching his pockets for the keys, so he doesn't notice the dark alley or the hungry look on the face of the guy at the edge of the darkness until a pair of hands, thin but strong, claps itself over his mouth and around his ribcage, trapping him.

For a very long heartbeat Dean is stiff with shock and fear, then he begins to fight. The guy releases Dean's arms, only to hit him over the head with something heavy. Against his will, Dean goes limp.

His strength returns slowly, at least until he sees the guy holding the keys to the apartment where Dad and Sammy are sleeping and vulnerable. His body still responds sluggishly, but his mind is back to its usual speed. When the guy raises the plank of wood to knock Dean out, something in Dean pulls tight and snaps, and the guy hits the dirty wall behind him, hard.

Slowly, Dean gathers the keys, Dad's wallet and today's lunch, and goes back to the apartment as quickly as he can manage.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he see that his father and brother haven't moved an inch. He puts away the food, showers quickly and fixes himself a sandwich. He's on his was to bed when he happens to glance at the clock. He stands there and stares for a while. Only an hour has passed since he left.

* * *

Five years later, eleven years, twenty-five years, he's still certain that he made the right choice never telling anyone about this.

* * *

**AN:** Currently a on-shot. May or may not be continued at some point.

Reviews are welcome. I don't usually ask, and I don't ever expect. I just hope, and then I'm thrilled when I get the +alert e-mails.

My sister suggests I laugh on the dotted line. I'd really rather not.

Anyway, hoping for some more inspiration soon.

Love, Annabeth


End file.
